The Sixth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I tried beer a few times,” Miss Dimples volunteered, “but I really didn’t like it. Too bitter.”

  I drained my glass, motioned toward their glasses.

  “Ready for another?” I asked hoarsely.

  “Hell, yes,” the editor said roughly.

  Sue Ann said, “Whee!”

  By the time my fresh gimlet arrived, I had it organized: how I would handle it.

  “You think Thorndecker knows about it?” I asked cautiously.

  “Oh hell,” she said, “he has to know. Those trips to Albany and Boston and New York. Once to Washington. To talk to potential sponsors. Big-money guys who might dip into their wallets for the Crittenden Research Laboratory. Then Thorndecker would come back alone. Julie would return a day or two or a week later. And a day or two after that, the contribution would come in. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was going on.”

  I nodded as if I was aware of this all along.

  “I knew you’d catch on,” Agatha Binder said morosely. “Listen, is what they do so bad? It’s in a good cause. You talk like it’s a federal case or something.”

  “No,” I said thoughtfully, “it’s not so bad. Maybe a little shabby, but I suppose it’s done in other businesses every day in the week.”

  “You better believe it,” she said, nodding violently.

  “I’m hungry,” Sue Ann said.

  I mulled over this new information. An angle I hadn’t even considered. Was this the “conspiracy” that all the Coburnites shared? Pretty sleazy stuff.

  “A very complex woman, our Julie,” I said wonderingly. “I’m just beginning to appreciate her. My first take was of a bitch with a libido bigger than all outdoors. But now it seems there’s more to her than that. Why does she do it, Agatha? Is it the sex? Or just the money to keep her lifestyle intact?”

  Binder punched gently at the tip of her nose with one knuckle. Then she took a deep swig from her beer bottle.

  “When are we going to eat?” Sue Ann asked plaintively.

  “A little of both,” the big woman said. “But mostly because she loves Thorndecker. Loves him! And believes in him, in his work. She worships him, thinks he’s a saint. She’s really a very loving, sacrificing woman.”

  I literally threw up my hands.

  “It’s a masquerade,” I said hopelessly. “Everyone wearing masks. Do you all take them off at midnight?”

  “You come up here from the big city and think you’re dealing with simple country bumpkins. It’s obvious in your attitude, in your sneers and jokes. Then you act like we’ve been misleading you when it turns out that we’re not cardboard cutouts, that we’re as screwed-up as everyone else.”

  I thought about that for a few moments.

  “You may be right,” I admitted. “To some extent. I’ve underestimated most of the people here I’ve met; that’s true. But not Thorndecker. I never sold him short.”

  “Oh, he’s one of a kind,” Agatha Binder said. “You can’t judge him by ordinary standards.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I just wonder what kind of a man would endure what his wife is doing. Encourage her to do it. Or at least accept it without objection.”

  “His work comes first,” the editor told me. “That’s his only test. Is it good or bad for his work?”

  “A monomaniac?” I suggested.

  “Or a genius,” she said.

  “Obsessed?” I said.

  “Or committed,” she said.

  “Insensitive?” I said.

  “Or totally dedicated,” she said.

  Then we were both silent, neither of us certain.

  “Maybe a hamburger,” Sue Ann said dreamily. “A cheeseburger. With relish.”

  I sighed and stood up.

  “Feed the child,” I told Agatha Binder, “before she collapses. Thanks for the talk.”

  “Thanks for the drinks.”

  Unexpectedly, she thrust out a hand, hard and horny. I shook it. I won’t say we parted friends, but I think there was some respect.

  I went back to the bar. I had intended to have something to eat there, but I decided to return to the Coburn Inn. I didn’t want to look into a misty bar mirror and see Agatha Binder sticking her tongue in Sue Ann’s ear. Then I knew I was getting old. It upset me to see things in public that people used to do only in bedrooms after the lights were out and the kids were asleep.

  On the drive back to the Coburn Inn, I tried not to think of what the editor had told me about Julie Thorndecker. But it bothered me that what she had revealed came as such an unexpected shock. The whole Thorndecker business had been like that: unfolding slowly and painfully. I wondered if I stayed in Coburn another week, a month, a year, if it would all be disclosed to me, right down to the final surprise.

  Agatha Binder’s accusation rankled because it was true. Partly true. I had assumed that these one-horse-town denizens were a different species, made of simpler, evident stuff, their motives easily perceived, their passions casually analyzed. There was hardly one of them who hadn’t proved my snobbery just by being human, displaying all the mysterious, inexplicable quirks of which humans are capable. I should have known better.

  The dining room at the Coburn Inn was moderately crowded; I ate in the bar. Had two musty ales with broiled porkchops, apple sauce, a baked potato, green beans with a bacon sauce, and rum cake for dessert. Well, listen, the fast I vowed that morning had lasted almost nine hours. After all, I am a growing boy.

  Went up to my room and began packing. I wasn’t planning to leave until the following morning, but I was nagged by the feeling that after my criminal enterprise scheduled for 2:00 A.M., I might want to make a quick getaway. So I packed, leaving the two suitcases and briefcase open.

  Then, using hotel stationery, I wrote out a precis of the Thorndecker affair. I tried to keep it brief and succinct, but included everything I had discovered, and what I hadn’t discovered: Thorndecker’s motive for infecting his nursing home patients with cancer.

  It ran to five pages, front and back, before I had finished. I read it over, made a few minor corrections, then sealed it in an envelope addressed to myself at the address of the Bingham Foundation in New York. I remembered what Thorndecker had said about keeping precise, complete notes “in case of an accident.” Then someone else could carry on the work.

  If there was no “accident” (like driving off Lovers’ Leap), I could destroy the manuscript when I got back to the office on Tuesday. If, for some reason, I didn’t return, someone at the office would open the letter. And know.

  Put on coat and hat again, went down to the lobby, bought stamps at the machine on the cigar counter.

  “Mail that for you, Mr. Todd?” the baldy behind the desk sang out.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll take a walk and drop it in the slot at the post office.”

  “Wet walking,” he said.

  “The farmers need it,” I said.

  I liked saying that. A Coburn tradition. A hurricane could hit, decimating Coburn and half of New York State, and someone was sure to crawl painfully from the wreckage, look up at the slashing, ripping sky, and croak, “Well, the farmers need it.”

  When I got back to Room 3-F, I shucked off wet coat, wet hat, wet boots, and fell into bed. I had heard that if you fall asleep concentrating on the hour you want to awake, you’ll get up on the dot. So I tried it, thinking, “Get up at midnight, get up at midnight, get up at midnight.” Then I conked off.

  I awoke at 1:15, which isn’t bad, considering it was my first try. But I did have to rush, making sure I was dressed completely in black, sneaking down the stairs, waiting until the lobby was deserted and the desk clerk was in the back office. Then I strode swiftly out to the parking lot. Still raining. I figured that was a plus. That roaming shotgun-armed guard with the attack dog would probably be inside someplace dry and warm, reading Penthouse or The Wall Street Journal. Something like that.

  I drove out to Crittenden at a moderate speed. I didn’t want to b
e late for my rendezvous with Mary Thorndecker—I doubted if her nerves could endure the wait—but I didn’t want to be too early either, chancing discovery by one of the guards.

  I cruised slowly by the gate. There were outside lights burning on the portico of Crittenden Hall, and I could see Julie Thorndecker’s blue MGB parked on the gravel driveway. It seemed odd that the car wasn’t garaged on a night like that.

  There were a few lights burning on the main floor of the nursing home, none on the second and third floors. No lights in the laboratory. There was a dim bluish glow (TV?) coming from the gatekeeper’s hut.

  I passed the gate, followed the fence until it began to curve around toward the cemetery. Then I pulled well off the road, doused my lights, waited until my eyes became accustomed to the dark. I opened the car door cautiously, stepped out, closed the door but left it unlatched.

  Gathered my equipment: stepladder, clothesline, sash weight, flashlight. I stuck the flash and weight in my hip pockets. My pants almost fell down.

  Carried ladder and rope across the road to the fence. Still raining. Not hard, but steadily. Straight down. A rain that soaked and chilled.

  Tied one end of the rope to the top of the aluminum stepladder. Threw the loose coils over the fence. Then I set up the ladder carefully, making sure the braces were locked. I climbed up.

  You’ve seen movies where James Bond or one of his imitators goes over a high fence by leaping, grabbing the top, pulling himself up and over. Try that little trick some time. Instant hernia. It’s a lot easier to carry your own stepladder.

  I stood on the top rung, swung one leg over the fence, straddled, swung the other leg over and jumped, remembering to land with flexed knees. Then I pulled my rope, and the ladder came up the outside of the fence. It took me a few minutes to jiggle it over, but eventually it dropped down inside. I caught it, and set it up against the inside of the fence, ready for a quick escape.

  Now I was inside the grounds. I had selected a spot where the bulk of Crittenden Hall came between me and the gate guard. I hoped I was right about the roving sentry keeping out of the rain. But just in case, I crouched a few moments in the absolute dark and strained to hear. A silence like thunder. No, not quite. I heard the rain hitting my hat, coat, the ground. But other than that—nothing.

  Moved warily toward the nursing home and its outbuildings. Didn’t use my flash, so twice I blundered into trees. Didn’t even curse. Did when I tripped over a fallen branch and fell to my hands and knees.

  Figure it took me at least fifteen minutes to work my way slowly around Crittenden Hall. A light came on briefly on the second floor, then went out. I hoped that was Mary Thorndecker with the keys, leaving the apartment of Dr. Kenneth Draper, starting down to meet me.

  Sudden angry barking of a dog. I froze. The barking continued for a minute or two, then ended as abruptly as it began. I moved again. Slowly, slowly. Trying to peer through the black, through the rain. Nightglow was practically nonexistent. I was in a tunnel. Down a well. Buried.

  Came up to Crittenden Hall. Eased around it as noiselessly as I could, fingertips lightly brushing the brick. Reflected that I was no outdoorsman. Not trained for this open-country stuff. I could navigate a Ninth Avenue tenement better than I could a copse, stubbled field, meadowland, or hills.

  Found the covered steps leading down from the nursing home to the back door of the Crittenden Research Laboratory. Kept off the paved walk, but moved in a crouch alongside it. Tried to avoid crashing through shrubbery or kicking the slate border.

  Finally, at the door. No Mary. I hunkered down. Put flashlight under the skirt of my trenchcoat. Risked quick look at my wristwatch. About 2:20. Sudden fear that I had missed her at 2:15, and she, spooked, had gone back to Draper’s bed.

  Waited. Hoping.

  Heard something. Creak of door opening. Pause. Soft thud as it closed. Wiped my eyes continually, peering up the hill. Saw something lighter than the night floating down. Tensed. Watched it draw closer.

  Mary Thorndecker. In white nightgown partly covered by old-fashioned flannel bathrobe cinched with a cord. Heavy brogues on bare feet. She was carrying the big umbrella, open. Beautiful. But I didn’t feel like laughing.

  She almost fell over me. I straightened up. She jerked back. I grabbed her, palm over her mouth. Then she steadied. I released her. Shoved my face close to hers under the umbrella.

  “The keys?” I whispered.

  Felt rather than saw her nod. Rings of keys pressed into my hand. I put my lips close to her ear.

  “I’m going to give you the flashlight. Before you switch it on, put your fingers across the lens. We just want a dim light. A glimmer. Just enough to show the lock. Understand?”

  She did just fine. We stood huddled at the door, blocking what we were doing with our bodies. She held the light, her fingers reducing the beam to a reddish glow. I tried three keys before the fourth slid in. I was about to turn it, then stopped. Still.

  “What is it?” she said.

  There had to be an alarm.

  I left the keys in the lock. Took her hands in mine, turned the flashlight slowly upward along the jamb of the door. There, at the top, another lock taking a barrel key.

  “Alarm,” I breathed in her ear. “Got to be turned off first before we open the door. There’s a barrel key on the ring. Let’s hope it—”

  At that moment. Precisely. Two sounds. Muffled. Indoors. From the nursing home. They were not snaps. More like dulled booms.

  “What—?” Mary said.

  I put a hand on her arm. We waited. In a few seconds, four more hard sounds in rapid succession. These were louder, more like cracks. They sounded closer.

  “Handgun,” I said in my normal voice, knowing it had all come apart. “Heavy caliber. You stay here.”

  “No,” she said, “I’m coming with you.”

  I grabbed the flashlight from her. Took her hand. We went stumbling up the walk, the open umbrella ballooning behind us, a puddle of light jerking along at our feet.

  Reached the back door of Crittenden Hall. Both of us panting.

  The door was locked.

  “The keys,” I said.

  “You left them in the door of the lab.”

  “What a swell burglar I am,” I said bitterly.

  I took out the sash weight, smashed the pane of glass closest to the lock. Hammered the shards away from the frame so I wouldn’t slit my wrists. Then reached in, opened the door.

  We ran into a brightly lighted corridor. Chaos. Alarms and excursions. Shouts and screams. People in white running, running. All toward the main entrance hall.

  And a shriek that shivered me. A wailing shriek, on and on. Man or woman? I couldn’t tell.

  “That’s Edward,” Mary Thorndecker gasped. “Edward!”

  We dashed like the others. Debouched into the lobby. Joined the jostling mob. All circling. Looking down.

  The shriek was all wail now. A weeping siren. It rose and fell in hysterical ululation.

  “Shut him up!” someone yelled. “Slap him!”

  I pushed roughly through, Mary following. No one saw us. Everyone was looking at what lay on the marble floor, at the foot of the wide staircase.

  They must have been shot while coming down the stairs. Then they fell the rest of the way. Ronnie Goodfellow, clad in mufti, hit first. He was prone, face turned to one side. His right leg snapped under him when he hit. A jagged splinter of bone stuck out through the cloth.

  Julie Thorndecker had landed near him, on her back. One side of her head was gone. Her arms were thrown wide. Her coat was flung open, skirt hiked up. One naked, pale, smooth, beautiful leg was lying across Goodfellow’s neck.

  Two pigskin suitcases had fallen with them. One had snapped open on impact, the contents cascading across the floor. Blue panties, brassieres, a small jewel case, negligees, the silver evening pajamas and sandals she had been wearing the night I met her.

  I don’t think the first two shots killed them. But then he fo
llowed them down and emptied his gun. The blood was pooling, beginning to merge, his and hers, and trickle across the marble tiles.

  Like the others, I stared at the still, smashed dolls. Dr. Draper knelt alongside, wearing a raincoat, bare shins sticking out. He fumbled for a pulse at their throats, but it was hopeless. Everyone knew it. He knew it. But his trembling fingers still searched.

  When I first glimpsed them, Edward Thorndecker was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his stepmother’s torn head in his lap. His head was back, face wrung, and that shrieking wail came out of his open mouth continuously, as if he needed no breath but only grief to produce that terrifying scream. Finally, hands reached down, pulled him away, took him off somewhere. They half-carried him, his toes dragging on the marble. The shriek faded, faded, then stopped suddenly.

  Surprisingly, Mary Thorndecker took charge.

  “Don’t touch anything,” she commanded in a loud, sharp voice. “Kenneth, you call the police. At once. Did anyone see where he went?”

  Where he went. There was no doubt in her mind, nor in anyone else’s, who had done this slaughter.

  The gorilla-butler, with a shoulder holster and gun strapped across a soiled T-shirt, pushed forward.

  “Out the back door, Miss Thorndecker,” he said. “I heard the shots and come running. I seen him. Out the back door and onto the grounds.”

  Mary Thorndecker nodded. “Alma, you and Fred see to the patients. Some of them may have heard the commotion. Calm them down. Sedation, if needed. The rest of you get your hats and coats. Bring flashlights and lanterns. We must find him. He is not a well man.”

  I pondered that: “He is not a well man.” And Hitler was “disturbed.”

  It took us maybe ten minutes to get organized. Mary Thorndecker ordered us around like a master sergeant. I couldn’t fault her. She got us spread out on a ragged line, at about fifteen-foot intervals. Most of the beaters had flashlights or lanterns. One guy had a kerosene lamp. And all the interior lights of Crittenden Hall were switched on, cutting the gloom in the immediate vicinity.

  At a command from Mary, we started moving forward, trying to keep the line intact. Once we were out of the Hall’s glow, the dark night closed in. Then all I could see was a bobbing, wavering necklace of weak lights, shimmering in the rain.